The Happy Mask

I have continually strived to be more authentic, more open, more real about my struggles.  I wore a happy mask for most of my life.  That first hospitalization at age 15, the dangers of the mask was my biggest epiphany.  That the energy and time I expended pretending I was fine was creating a schism that made want to sleep for a century, just escape from the world.  I resolved to be more open after I was discharged, assured that the people who loved me in my life would stand by me.  But teenagers are complicated creatures, and the reception I received was not at all what I had hoped for.  I quickly reverted back and learned to keep a fractured existence.  Luckily, my mom was very lenient and let me skip school and sleep until 2pm once a week.  

Opening up to new people continues to be fraught.  Especially people who have known me in my happy years, and who I hid the history of my illness from, who are now learning bits and pieces of my story in a messy, confusing way.  What comes next is an onslaught of unsolicited advice, of that knee jerk reaction to problem solve, that deep discomfort with the helplessness they feel when faced with the depths of my pain, and the follow up of repeated, “are you feeling better?” questions, fishing from me a response that will calm their anxiety and relieve them of their newfound burden. 

I feel like an asshole, when I get so angry about that word, that fucking word better, because it signifies to me a false sense and hope for linear progress, the reality is I might be feeling okay today and tomorrow I might be suicidal again.  It’s the way people show they care, but for me, if I say yes, it’s like I’m jinxing myself and the other shoe will immediately drop.  Also, when I say yes, it seems to me that you feel so confident and assured that you are now off the hook from continuing to care, and then surprised if I fall apart all over again.  When I hear that question, I literally think the only I answer I can say is yes, and now I must put my happy mask back on and BE better.  Because everyone is tired of me being sick.  But no one is more tired than me. 

I feel like an asshole when I balk at all the advice, again people are trying to show they care, because it makes me defensive, because they have no idea the extent of and years I fought my illness while being highly functional, the amount of treatment I’ve been in, all the drugs I’ve taken, the money I’ve spent, the insane pressure I put on myself to follow all the lifestyle rules for sleeping, eating, exercise, hobbies, etc.  All the energy it takes.  That makes you want to sleep and never wake up.   

If the solution was so easy, so obvious, you must think I’m willfully blind, self-destructive, misguided and lazy to not have seized upon it yet.  

I feel like an asshole, when I get annoyed because the only way people know how to be supportive is to say, I’m here if you ever want to talk.  No, I don’t want to talk to you.  You are not a mental health professional.  You are a bad listener.  You think a problem you have had is the same, and you want to prescribe me the formula you used to fix it.  When I refer to emotions I’m experiencing that I am having a hard time trying to control, you tell me to just stop feeling that way.  Stop thinking about it.  Stop worrying.  Let go of your anger.  Don’t dwell on it.  Don’t pay attention to the person causing you grief.  Rise above.  Or you tell me, crying is wonderful.  It’s great.  It will get it out of my system.  Sometimes you stay stupid shit, like when I admit I just started cutting myself again, you tell me I need a boyfriend. 

I am so ungrateful.  If I tell people who care about me they keep saying the wrong thing even when they mean well, eventually they will give up and stop talking to me altogether.  I must have empathy, and understanding because it is so hard to know how to care for someone with a mental illness.  But they do care.     

Maybe, it’s just time to put back on the happy mask.  Maybe being honest is more exhausting than lying. 
Maybe if I declare to the world I’m better, then people will be with me again, and we can find ways to enjoy each other’s company, which ironically is probably more helpful than when they are trying to help. 

You know, with all that I complain, about how all the support I get sucks, you know the biggest irony?  You know what helps?  When someone buys or sends me a bag of candy and some stickers.  When someone makes me a cup of tea.  When someone insists on coming over instead of asking me to leave my house, and maybe helps me wash my dishes and brings me food to eat.  When we play a game or color or draw together.  When someone brushes my hair and a even better bonus, if they braid it. When someone is far away, but they remember me and send me a funny youtube video they know I’ll like.  When they tell me about their life, what they are struggling with, but draw no parallels between the two of us.  When they offer to do some research for me, to look up things that are hard and complicated and overwhelming for me to figure out and actually follow through.    

My young nieces and nephews have always been the greatest gift.  They are beautiful company that keep me present and their love is uncomplicated. A dance party and singing the latest pop songs at the top of our lungs, or wrestling on the floor and competing for who can hold plank the longest.  I don’t always have to pretend to be happy either. They have seen me cry uncontrollably, and they’ll hug me and give me a balloon, or loan me their favorite stuffed animal, and explain that I should snuggle with it but eventually I do need to give it back.

I so desperately wish it was all easier.  Both for you and for me.  And it’s precisely because it never seems to get any easier that suicide looms in the background as a viable option.  But suicide is not easy, not at all.  And I’m tired.  Really really tired.